


He Thinks, He Says

by NerdyMind



Series: 3k Puzzle Challenge Winners [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mary is Moran, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never asks, John never answers.<br/>Post-HLV, angst-riddled pining with a happy ending<br/>_____<br/>Gift for <a href="http://bennycee.tumblr.com/">bennycee</a>.  Third winner in the Puzzle Challenge game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amelia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who are you, here in my head,  
> this stranger sleeping in my bed?  
> -SA

The plane lands and John wants to run to him. But Sherlock doesn’t ask, so John doesn’t go.

John is left to pace alone at home. A home he’s forced to share with a stranger. Moriarty’s face is plastered across every paper and Mary’s behavior on the tarmac was beyond suspicious. For days John watches her stay out later and later each night. Texting someone whenever she thinks John can’t see. Snapping her laptop shut the moment he returns from work. _The plan was to observe her_ , he thinks. John knows something is wrong, he knows he should talk to someone about it. He knows that particular someone should be his best friend but he doesn’t want to impose or get underfoot with the investigation. _If he needed me, he would call. Sherlock would not just run off on his own again, not after everything that’s happened_ , John reasons.

Three nights later, Mary disappears completely. She doesn’t show for work, misses her doctor’s afternoon appointment and when John attempts to call he finds her phone disconnected. Moriarty has been back for a scarcely a week and John thinks he’s been patient quite long enough. He resists temptation for five additional minutes before calling Sherlock.

“Ah, John. How are you?” Sherlock answers. Calm. Collected. As if they’ve just arrived home from a lovely brunch and John was just dropping a line to ask when they’d meet again. As if he’s been expecting this call.

 _He knows_ , John thinks. “So you know then,” he says.

“Of course,” Sherlock replies. _It’s good to hear your voice_ , he thinks. _I’ve missed you_. He wants to tell John where Mary is. Wants to tell him that right now Mycroft and Greg are tracking her on CCTV hoping she’ll lead them to Moriarty. He wants to say all of this. But there’s no knowing who may be listening on John’s tapped phone. “John, I promise to contact you if we locate your wife.”

Stunned, John opens his mouth to speak but only manages a defeated sigh. _Is that all?_ the voice in his head rages. _Is that really all you have to say to me?_

“John?”

“I’m here,” John manages. “Thank you, Sherlock. Please let me know.”

Sherlock disconnects the call without answering. John stares at his phone, finger hovering over redial. _He would tell me if the plan changed,_ John tells himself. It takes a bottle of wine and three shots of whiskey before he's convinced.

___  
“Her name is Amelia Moran.” It’s the first they’ve spoken since Mary, no, not Mary disappeared and John is still blinking awake from his restless sleep. _Amelia?_ He wonders. _This doesn’t change anything. The plan was always to wait until the baby was delivered--_ “She’s not pregnant,” Sherlock interrupts John’s thoughts.

“She’s… You mean..” John feels faint. Suddenly glad to be lying down. _All this wasted time_. Months of tolerating the woman who shot his best friend. Months of false smiles and making her tea and going to doctor’s visits. Looking at staged ultrasound images. Jesus, they’d even picked out a list of baby names. He rolls to his side, determined to vomit up every bad memory.

“There is no baby, John.” Sherlock waits on the line. Listens to his friend’s ragged breathing, his body shaking and shifting in the sheets. _You should come home, let me keep you close and keep you safe until we bring her in,_ Sherlock thinks. “We are still tracking her movements. She hasn’t come by the apartment has she?” he asks.

“No,” John answers. _I want to come home_ , he thinks. _I need you_. “I haven’t heard from her in a week.” The morning sun is blinding and John attempts to stand, stumbling to the kitchen for coffee. His fingers have gone dumb, failing to tie a knot in his robe as he cradles his phone between cheek and shoulder. Sherlock’s calm breathing on the line keeps him grounded.

“Alright then,” Sherlock draws in a slow breath. Swallows back the flood of things he wants to say. “Let me know if she tries to contact you, John. I will be in touch.” Sherlock hangs up before he reveals too much. Not wanting to put John any further into harm’s way.

John decides coffee is not strong enough to wake him from this particular nightmare.

____  
Two days later, Sherlock informs John of his plan to trap both Moran and Moriarty together via a cryptic email. In it he promises to let John know when it’s safe to contact him again. John wants to help, but Sherlock does not ask, so John does not go. Nothing changes. He is a broken soldier again. Sitting alone in a strange flat, waiting for Sherlock to run up the stairs and ask him to come along. But Baker Street is miles away and this place still smells like _Claire de la Lune_.

He hates that smell now. Hates the memories and scars it left behind. His hand clenches, still remembering the feeling of rough skin on Sherlock’s chest, the ragged scar tissue. John closes his eyes, taking shallow breaths to dilute the pain. Finds the flat suffocating and decides to head to a pub instead.

Outside it’s snowing. He shivers and crosses his arms, rubbing them greedily for warmth. John looks up the road squints at the small red glow of his favorite pub on the horizon and decides the walk is too far to go without a coat. Back upstairs, he finds his phone flashing on the countertop.

**Pier 9, quickly. He needs you. MH**

____  
Flashing lights surround him, Greg and his team setting up a search perimeter as John edges alongside the warehouse on Pier 9. Last known location for Amelia Moran. And James Moriarty. And his stubborn flatmate turned friend. John lifts his gun, disengages the safety and shoulders the back door open.

“Sherlock,” the name is stripped from his lungs as he enters the warehouse. A single fluorescent bulb flickers over Sherlock’s motionless body. Hanging from the rafters, bloodied and broken. For a terrifying moment he fears the worst, until Sherlock shifts his wrist, struggling against his ropes. John stumbles forward on unsteady legs when movement to his left stills him. Amelia Moran emerges from the shadows, gun expertly trained not on him, but the helpless man between them.

“One more step, John, and you will not live long enough to watch him die.” John does not move, he does not think, but he does not lower his gun. Two quick pops ring out. Sherlock’s choked groan echoing in the hollow space. Mary, not Mary, collapses in a heap on the floor.

John tosses the smoking gun aside and rushes to Sherlock. His pulse is weak but present. The bullet piercing through his chest a scant two centimeters above her last shot. He cuts the taller man free and lowers him gently to the floor.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is higher, tainted with fear and panic.

“John?” Sherlock blinks up at the shadow overhead. Surely he’s died by now. Illusion then. “John..” He repeats. Softer. His eyelids droop, head lolling to the side.

“No! No no no you don’t. Stay with me. Stay awake,” John tries and fails to get the man to regain consciousness. He floats on a daze the next few hours. Following an emergency crew into the ambulance, through the emergency room, floats on pacing legs as Sherlock goes under for surgery, and does not settle until he’s sat in a chair beside the ECG and gently stroking Sherlock’s cold fingers.

He wants to cry but he can’t find it in him to create tears from hollowness. He doesn’t cry when Greg comes in and escorts him to the Morgue to ID Amelia’s body. He looks down at her flat stomach in disbelief and, even then, the tears won’t come. He doesn’t cry when Mycroft enters the room and asks him softly to be left alone with his brother. And John certainly doesn’t cry for Jim Moriarty. His body later discovered upstairs in the warehouse. A single kill shot courtesy of NSY.

He falls asleep, dry eyed and exhausted, fingers laced with Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this has a happy ending. They just have to work for it.


	2. Sent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pardon me while i pine, my dear  
> screaming words you'll never hear.  
> -SA

For days, Sherlock is only lucid in fleeting blips. His broken bones are set. Cuts fade to scars and bruise mottled skin begins to clear. But the fever flushing through Sherlock’s system has left him confused and mostly unresponsive.

Locked in his mind, Sherlock dreams. It’s dark in the hallway, windows reflecting back a starless night sky. He feels smaller, younger. Lungs full of adrenaline and a feeling he has long since buried; fear. The other children are not playing fair. This game of tag has become a chase and Sherlock finds himself running from a nasty little boy named James. A little blonde girl named Amelia calls from behind him, “come out, come out, wherever you are” and Sherlock ducks inside the nearest door, its heavy oak frame and solid wood grain beneath his palm feel like security. He is safe here.

After five days Sherlock’s fever breaks and he stays awake long enough to eat solid food, giving Mycroft a wry grin before succumbing back to the morphine. His words are all still locked in his mind. Hiding.

Crouching in the darkness, Sherlock can hear the cruel children searching. James taps a melody in code along the palace’s central stair rail. Hollow metallic ringing assaults Sherlock’s ears and he covers them. James begins singing and Sherlock finds he cannot block the sound. “Sherlock, darling, do come out and play. Daddy is getting so bored of this game, sweetie.” James sounds bigger, his voice filling every space of the empty room. He is too close. Sherlock curls into himself, willing his bones and muscle to make him smaller. Hiding behind the big desk in Mycroft’s office, the same way he did back when it was his father’s desk.

On the sixth morning, Greg calls John down to Scotland Yard to deal with paperwork. The DI had graciously given John time and space to sort himself emotionally, but Mary, not Mary, is still legally his responsibility on paper. Lestrade says as much and though John huffs and sulks he texts Mycroft. He’s still too worried to leave Sherlock alone. When Mycroft arrives to relieve him, he looks as exhausted as John feels. Mutual nods and shrugs are exchanged and the disheveled doctor drags his potato sack self to the nearest lift.

Sherlock is shivering. The room is colder and bigger than he remembers. James and Amelia kick the door in and his knees and teeth are left chattering in the wake of a frigid draft. Before he can formulate a plan of escape there is a tap at his shoulder. A young man appears beside him, gold and glowing and made of pure fire. “Follow me,” the little sun boy says, offering his hand. Sherlock takes the warm fingers, reveling in the touch. The glowing child pulls and pulls until they are flying up and out of the dark space. Sherlock looks back to see Amelia kick over the desk, shrieking in anger. A laugh slips from him and her blonde head swivels skyward, blue eyes glaring daggers. “John!”

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, barely a whisper over the hum of machinery. But Mycroft is texting Anthea in the hallway and no one is there to hear him.

The sun child, illuminated man is bigger now. An adult. He knows this face. “Sherlock?” the face asks. “Sherlock. Stay with me.” Sherlock shakes his head and looks down to their joined palms. He feels taller now. John is looking at him, waiting, but he cannot find anything to say. _Stay with me, John_ , he thinks. “Goodbye,” he says. John’s face is sad now. Handshake dropping, slowly. He turns to walk away and Sherlock sees her now. Amelia, standing to the side of his John. Arms open for him. _No_ , he thinks. But the words will not come.

Movement from the bed draws Mycroft’s eye. He watches his brother’s mouth moving furtively, sleep talking. His eyelids flickering rapidly. After a moment of failed attempts to lip read, Mycroft calls the nurses in.

Sherlock is flying again. He’s laughing, kicking his legs in the swing to go higher, higher. He jumps, sailing through the air, arms wide open. He flies past glass windows, into a plane where he bites his hand until his eyes sting and he’s jerked back, suddenly swinging again. Strung from a ceiling. He doesn’t like flying anymore. Amelia’s face flashes before him. “Don’t look so glum, Sherlock,” she says. Her eyes are smiling but her voice is bitter, angry. “I won’t leave you alone long. John will be joining you soon enough.” _John._

“John!” Sherlock’s eyes shoot open. He is having trouble moving the rest of his body but a cool hand covers his on the sheet and he knows the dream is over. “Mycroft? Wh-,” he struggles to speak around numb lips and a dry tongue. “Where is John?”

“Doctor Watson is safe,” Mycroft assures him. Sherlock closes his eyes and sinks back into the pillow. His entire body aches but the pain blossoming in his chest outranks them all.

 _Then where is he_? Sherlock thinks. “Good,” he says.  
____

Just one last errand and he can pop in to see Sherlock. The large iron gates creak behind him and John shivers against the breeze. He hates planning funerals. Sherlock is very much alive and, according to Mycroft’s text, safe. But his stomach is in knots walking through the familiar cemetery. Everything here, from the trees to cool marble faces, all feels a little too deja vu. Burying a dead spouse under false pretense.

He doesn’t want this, doesn’t think she deserves to rest eternal beneath a lie, half of which is his name. But the last thing John or Sherlock need right now is media attention. Greg and Mycroft have done their best to help keep everything out of the papers, but John must continue the facade and bury a woman everyone saw him marry. He recalls the look on Sherlock’s face at their reception. Just before he disappeared. The way his smile melted away for a moment and John just knew. Something had gone terribly wrong. A chill runs through him and he pulls his jacket closer. Hands digging further into his pockets seeking warmth.  
____

Mycroft takes over Sherlock’s release and relocation to Baker Street. After long dreary conversations and legal paperwork, the elder Holmes is at the edge of patience. Sherlock’s attending physician voices his disapproval and Mycroft answers him with a silent scowl until the little grey haired man leaves, stumbling over a bin. Triumphant, he texts Anthea.

Outside the flat, Greg has set up a police perimeter to cut off the media. Two of the largest men in Mycroft’s detail stand on either side of Sherlock, blocking him from telephoto lenses. The two brothers make their way inside slowly, pausing inside the safety of the hallway to remove coats and scarves and share silent smiles.

“Ah! My boys! Back home at last,” Mrs. Hudson appears behind them. Hugging until Sherlock squeaks in pain and she backs down in a string of apologies. Sherlock finds he feels lighter, for a moment. Warmed to his very core. He smiles even, allowing his brother to help him upstairs and settle into the sofa. Lets Mrs. Hudson dote on him without complaint. He feels, for the first time in a long while, content to love and be loved.

By nightfall everyone has gone. Sherlock wakes to an empty flat. Shuffling into his housecoat he goes to the kitchen for tea and turns around, looking for.. something. But the fireplace is the only movement. Its warmth fleeting and far off. He feels it again. The creeping chill. The darkness inside him that needs an answer. _Where is John?_

____

 **I know it’s late but** \---

John deletes the text.

 **I just wanted to tell you** \--

backspacebackspacebackspacebackspace... John stares at the blinking cursor of his mobile.

**Welcome back, Sherlock. J**

He sends the text. Holds his breath and counts to ten. Then twenty. No reply. He sets the phone on his nightstand and rolls over, willing himself not to peek. He rolls back over, snatches the device and turns it on quickly, presses the volume key rapidly. It is already set to max volume. He stares at the time until it switches over. One minute. Then two. Phone off, back on the nightstand. He goes to piss, brush his teeth and wash his face. John paces by the bed. Walks back to the nightstand, flicks the mobile back on and opens his text menu. Sent - 12 minutes ago. He tosses the phone aside and slumps face first into his pillow. The foam and cotton swallowing his frustrated groan.

*ping*

John smiles into his pillowcase. He jerks back, grasping for the phone, knocking it to the floor.  Draping himself over the mattress he reaches and pulls up the screen, smiling at the little icon of Sherlock's profile.

_Busy day? SH_

Sherlock wants to ask John why he wasn’t there when he woke up. Wants to ask why John is somewhere else, and not here. Not home. But the pain medication is kicking in and and Sherlock is yawning. His aching body pops and stretches across his bed. Reveling in the feel of his own sheets. The smell of being home again. He rolls over and waits for an explanation. Smiling stupidly at the small icon on his phone. John’s smiling face. Taken just a few days after Sherlock pulled him from a bonfire. It was a perfect moment and Sherlock had it captured forever. His. His John.

**Buried her. J**

Sherlock blinks. Stares. Blinks. The pit at his core opens up and sucks in every last shred of warmth. Replaced with a swift chill then nothingness. _Even in death, he chose her_. Sherlock thinks himself to the edge of tears. He wipes his eyes, face suddenly flushed in heat. Shame. Anger.

 _Was she really_ \-- he deletes the text.

 _Not that you care but_ \-- he holds the backspace key.

 _Oh_.

Send. Sherlock powers down his mobile and tosses the phone aside, letting it clatter to the floor and roll beneath his bed. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to know what John has to say. Not anymore. John chose her. Again. Despite everything. He drags himself from bed to the restroom. Mrs. Hudson’s special cookies and tea wasted in the sink.

**Sherlock?**

John sends the question out into the darkness and waits. And waits. He falls asleep with his mobile wedged against his ear. In the morning there is a mark across his right cheek that won’t scrub off. Not even under the hottest shower he can stand.

Sent - 6 hours ago. No reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic got out of hand and is now three chapters. apologies!


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tapped her heels thrice and said  
> 'Take me home to my love and my bed.'  
> -SA

“Sherlock, stop pacing before you make yourself sick,” Mycroft pleads from the red paisley chair.

 _John’s chair_ , Sherlock thinks, squinting down at his older brother. Nausea makes him pause and Mycroft’s lip curls in a smug twitch of I-told-you-so. “If I get sick, brother dear, it will be your face -not my pacing- held to blame,” Sherlock mutters.

“Mature,” Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and lets loose an exasperated sigh.

“Melodramatic,” Sherlock counters but stops pacing and folds himself into his chair. All awkward limbs and twitchy nervous energy. He pulls his housecoat up around his knees and tries to stay still and listen.

“The plan,” Mycroft begins again.

“The story,” Greg interjects from the kitchen. Mycroft swivels around to smile up at the DI as he walks in with a tea tray.

“Yes, the story we are feeding those vultures outside,” Mycroft offers his open palm for Greg’s tea, pausing to sip and nod thanks before continuing. “James Moriarty is to be blamed for killing Mary, her unborn child having passed some days later in hospital. The trick will be connecting him to Magnussen, but I am quite sure you can think of something.” Mycroft lets the request hang between them, watches with fondness as Greg offers Sherlock his own steaming mug.

Sherlock waves off his morning tea, stomach still churning from the night before. He turns the plan over in his mind. Of course NSY would want credit for finally capturing Moriarty but they don’t want to be held accountable for killing a woman the media saw as the innocent pregnant wife of Sherlock Holmes’ partner. _Sherlock Holmes, murderer of one Charles Magnussen_ , he thinks. _And the only man who could corroborate Mary’s past._ “I suppose I owe you thanks, Lestrade,” Sherlock says dismissively. He knows his brother helped in no small degree but he’s cross with the man and does not feel like thanking him where others can see. “You and your... team.”

“Any time,” Greg laughs. He bubbles with nervous energy but settles on the sofa across from them. “Of course it’s not all me. John is doing his part.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. “I gave him instructions yesterday. Talking points. The doctor has agreed to play his part for the media.”

Sherlock raises his head slowly, indiscreetly reading his brother through squinted eyes. “Explain.”  
____

John sits before a cooling mug of tea and spins his phone round and round and round until it falls to the floor with a clatter. He sips his forgotten tea, cringes and tosses the whole mess down the sink. Retrieving his mobile he crosses back to the living room and plops into his sofa. It’s cold and uncomfortable but he’s got no energy to move again. A peeling piece of wallpaper catches his attention and John spends the next fifteen minutes flicking it with the edge of his silent mobile. The battery died three hours ago. He should go back to the bedroom and plug it in, but he’s terrified of what he’ll find.

He would like to say he doesn’t know why Sherlock is behaving this way. But the truth is John has a fairly good idea. _He blames me for everything that’s happened. That much is obvious_ , John tells himself. _He can’t look at me without remembering her. The best thing to do is wait and leave him alone for a while._

But John doesn’t want to wait. He’s been waiting. Years. With a resigned groan he removes himself from the uncomfortable sofa and heads to his back room.

 _Even if you hate me_ , he thinks.  
___

“He was hesitant at first,” Mycroft says.

“Well he was a bit shaken, Myc,” Greg adds with a shrug. Sherlock’s ears burn at the nickname and his brother’s subsequent blush, but he logs it away for later.

“Of course he was shaken,” Mycroft continues, looking away to hide his face. “He had just shot the woman he married and found his... best friend near death. But when I explained the situation and how it would affect everyone around him, he was much more.. receptive.”

“Of course,” Sherlock echoes from his chair. He’s stopped twitching. Eyes glossed over as he retreats into his mind. _John shot Mary? John is the one who found me?_ A million questions race through his thoughts at once. The last thing he remembers is telling John to wait and not get involved. At least implying as much. He can’t remember actually telling John not to help. _And of course the stubborn man would just barge in. Of course it was John._ “Of course,” he repeats again, blinking back to the present conversation.

“Well, I gave him time,” Greg says almost defensively.

“I know you did, Gregory,” Mycroft assures, he looks worried. As if offending the detective would give him pause and Sherlock files that away under the new sobriquet. “And that will work well for us, I promise you. He spent the last two weeks holed up at Sherlock’s bedside. We can use that. Spin it for the papers, claiming Doctor Watson was there for Mary and his child. They are less likely to suspect a grieving fa--”

“Excuse me,” Sherlock interrupts, abruptly rising from his seat. Visibly shaken, he walks to the back bedroom. A slammed door his only answer to dual raised eyebrows.  
___

Phone back on he sees nothing has changed.

Sent - 9 hours ago. No reply.

 **Sherlock, I don’t-** \- He deletes the line. Stares at the blinking cursor until the small blank box blurs out of focus.

 **I need you to kn** \-- He erases the thought from print and mind. No, better not to push anything just yet. Best check if he’s in a better mood this morning first.

**Please respond. Even if you hate me. I deserve an explanation. Don’t I deserve that? J**

John leaves his phone to charge and laces up his boots, tossing on a coat and scarf. He goes to the corner for a fresh cup of tea. Temptation left back at the flat where it won’t drive him mad with impatience.

He resists the urge to run back to his flat for a small amount of time. Letting the hot drink soothe his aching head, watching people pass by the large glass window of the cafe. But a tall gentleman in a blue scarf passes by and his heart goes cold in his chest. John doesn’t think, he just goes. Back inside he finds the phone still silent, still blank.

Sent - 20 minutes ago. “No reply,” he reads. “Fuck you Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

**Two years, Sherlock. Two years I thought I had lost you. I saw you everywhere.**

His fingers are trembling as he unloads everything, sends the words without pause. He’s not signing his texts anymore. Sherlock knows who he is by now. If he doesn’t, he will soon enough.

**You have to know by now how I care about you.**

**But you destroyed me, you broke me when you did what you did. And I still forgave you.**

**I still--**

John swallows. Pauses in his frantic texting.

**I still love you.**

**I don’t know what I did to you to deserve this. I’ve been nothing but loyal to you.**

**I had to fight everything in me to not jump on that plane with you. To not tell you right there.**

**To not pull you down and kiss you in front of everyone, damn the consequences.**

**You can’t keep doing this to me, Sherlock.**

**Tell me you hate me.**

**Tell me never to speak to you again.**

**Tell me what you want.**

**But don’t keep me waiting like this. It’s cruel.**

John tosses his phone back on the nightstand and goes to the kitchen. He opens his liquor cabinet and stares. Hands shaking. A calming deep breath pulls through him and he slowly closes the cabinet back, eyes closed he counts to ten. Then twenty. The silence of his flat is deafening. _He’ll call,_  John tells himself as he settles back into his chair in the dining room. _It can’t end like this._

_____  
Sherlock tosses his housecoat on the bed and falls to his knees, groaning at the soreness in his frame but desperate. After a few moments of strained reaching his fingers wrap around the discarded mobile. He powers it up immediately and waits. Soon his room is filled with a beeping text alert, over and over again. Each chime a guilty dagger through his chest. _I’ve messed up_ , he thinks.

The first missed text is no surprise. John was worried. But those which follow grow angrier and angrier until... Sherlock sucks in a startled gasp.

 _John, I_ \-- he deletes the text and pockets his phone, crossing to his wardrobe.

In seconds Sherlock is dressed and stepping into his shoes. He leaves his bedroom, walks past the two men sat staring in his sitting room and grabs his coat.

“Sherlock, what are you, where do you think--” Mycroft can’t seem to process what has just occurred.  He looks to Greg for some explanation but his face is just as lost.

“Don’t wait up,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder as he slips his gloves on. Scarf in hand, he walks down the stairs without another word. A stunned silence left in his wake.

After a delayed shuffling and dropped tea cups, Mycroft and Greg get downstairs in time to see a familiar head of dark curls duck into a taxi and drive away. _Damn you and your magic cab acquiring powers_ , Mycroft thinks.  
____

Of course John can’t just sit and wait forever. And these stiff dining chairs are wholly uncomfortable. He finds himself back in the bedroom, snatches his phone from the nightstand and walks back to the front room, fingers flying across the keypad. John sends the last text and grabs his coat. He can’t wait around any longer for Sherlock to get his head out of his arse. He’s going to make the man talk to him. No more running away.

**If I have to kick the door in, I’m coming home.**

He wrenches his own front door open with more force than necessary and freezes. Sherlock stands before him, hand poised to knock. Silence stretches between them. John’s glove stilled with just three fingers in. Sherlock’s mouth slowly opening to a silent “Oh”.

*ping*

Sherlock slowly lowers his hand, reaches into his jacket and removes his phone. He lowers his eyes from John’s shocked stare and reads the text. John sucks in a gasp of air, his lungs gently reminding him that, yes, air is a necessity.

“Why didnt you tell me?,” Sherlock asks. Eyes still lowered to the phone in his hand.

“You never asked,” John responds defensively. _I would have told you so many times if you had shown even the slightest--_

“I’m a genius not a mind reader,” Sherlock interrupts his thoughts. He finally looks up, watching blue eyes flash with fear. Forehead creasing a moment as John looks him over, scrutinizing. Defensive. John clears his throat, stands up straighter and removes his gloves. He points an accusing finger towards Sherlock’s chest, a flash of wires and fresh bullet wound reminding him to be gentle. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it and steps closer. Eyes searching Sherlock’s face for the lie. Reading him for any sign of trick or test.

Finding nothing to hold him back, nothing to tell him to stop, John reaches back out, twists his hand in Sherlock’s scarf and gently pulls the taller man down to meet him eye level until their faces are mere inches apart. His voice is barely a whisper between them, “Tell me, Sherlock. Right now. Tell me what you want.”

“Come home, John,” Sherlock says. His words come out in a hot breath across John’s cheek. Their content filling him with a heat that starts at his core and spreads to every chilled finger and toe. “John, I..” Sherlock licks his lips, eyes darting down as John mirrors the movement.

John watches those eyes watching him and pulls just enough until their lips meet.  It's a gentle kiss.  A question lingering.  He pauses when Sherlock tenses up.  Sighing in relief when he feels hands slipping to his waist, tugging him closer. Sherlock’s mouth warm and opening for him. Inviting him back in. John can do nothing but hold tighter and reciprocate.

 _Home_ , they think together.


End file.
